Disclaimer: get your barf bag handy. The picture you are about to see below is horrible. And no, I’m not talking about the Ungaro and the Cavalli.
Last Saturday over dinner, my local designer friend Tina and I were planning on what to do on our birthday this year. Her birthday is the next day after mine — although I have to stress out that she’s at least 10 years older than me.
I haven’t thrown a huge birthday bash in ages. The last time I threw a party for myself was back when I turned 17 (+2), at the penthouse suite of an Ian Schrager Hotel in London. I had around 100 gatecrashers plus 20-or-so random internet geeks come into the party. I could never forget the look on the doorman’s faces when me and my thingie friend (ex-crush) called Dave from Edinburgh smuggled numerous booze and tons of bottles of Clicquot and Cristal inside 3 Prada and Vuitton suitcases the night before.
Back then, I had the hots for that ex-crush. Shame he ended up with this Indian or something girl called Shabana. If he only knew how I fancied him badly. Oh well.
I on the other hand, did the side dish instead of
the main course.
I basically ended up with Shabana’s friend — another guy called Dave — who was an actor for commercials, who, at that time, had Pot-o-Noodle and Tango adverts under his belt. He was alright looking I guess… but the sex was bad. It was my fault though. I couldn’t get an erection, not that it matters cause I’m a bottom bitch. I literally didn’t have the libido at that time – I was utterly drug-fucked, casualty at its finest, pro-bono cocaine sponsored by that Turk guy Ronnie, who brought this weird psycho ward friend who looked exactly like the thin man who had the hair smelling fetish in Charlie’s Angels.
Oh the memories. Since then, I haven’t really thrown any hedonistic birthday parties.
This year however, I can feel the call of nature… and peer pressure. After all, I’m turning 18 strong>(+5). Tina suggested that we should throw a joint birthday bash in the rooftop of one of her condos with everyone dressed up like a bitch. This includes all the guys — everyone has to wear high heels. Heels, lipstick and hair extensions galore.
Honestly, this is one fine line I’ve never crossed before.
Sure, I may be a bent queer mother fucker that carries a handbag but me in a wig and heels? Nuh uh. I’ve never done that, at least publicly. Personally I think it’s too much. I live in a small world and I don’t want any members of my clan see me abuse the powers of a stiletto.
Drag queens also scare me. Whenever I hear the word "drag", I get mental pictures of 6-foot tall, extremely hairy, gay white men with cheap K-mart make up, hooker-like stockings, cheap outfits and a voice that doesn’t match.
I honestly find them despicable. A complete insult
I don’t want to do drag. When I’m gonna dress up like a real girl, I wanna dress up like a REAL girl. Tall, lanky, Eastern European skinny son of a bitch that strut the runways in Milan. I want va-va-voom instead of bra-bra-broom! Drag queens want huge, watermelon-sized, stuff-a-turkey-on-your-chest big tits, I want it flat-chested. A mere raisin on top of a thin-crust pizza. That sort of thing. They like big curly, high blonde wigs, I like long, extremely thin, slick and straight hair. They like cheesy, cheap porn-star 12-inch high platform stilletos, I like $750 pumps with a 4-inch heel. They want hideously thick makeup, I want it simple, fresh and polished.
Even Galliano’s gone real world. Bye
bye theatrical. I don’t wanna be a
sucky sucky 5 dolla me love you
long time 10 dolla you pay 20 dolla i
gib free roast duck cheap Thai ladyboy.
In other words, I want it real…and flat chested.
And not fake. I feel sorry for those young, tissue-paper stuffing teenage girls. Hello young ‘uns… ya should be happy for your tits. Models have small tits. Remember: big tits are for mothers and hookers.
DO YOU BLOODY WANT TO LOOK LIKE A
WATERMELON CHESTED PREGNANT MOTHER?
THE ONLY REASON WHY BOYS LIKE HUGE TITS
IS BECAUSE THEY FANCY THEIR OWN MOTHERS.
THERE’S A TERM FOR IT. "MILF", MOTHERS I’D
LIKE TO FUCK. (bestfriendsmom.com)
The tentative date for our party is Saturday, March 19th. We can’t make it later than that cause we’re going to Boracay again on the 23rd, then I’m off to Singapore in April. I’ve got 54 days to drop to 100 pounds, lose weight, think and buy an outfit, get fantastically brilliant skin and wax my entire body. Should I wear trousers or a dress? Should I show some skin or the finest frocks ever?
Fucking hell, how hard is it to be a girl?